Acceptance of Fate
by Jakia
Summary: [zutara postwar drabble series] [because all the cool kids are doing it] Sometimes, when all that surrounds you is death and destruction, a familair face, even that of a enemy, is a welcome sight.
1. Survior

**Acceptance of Fate**

_**1: Survivor**_

The bar had good, strong ale, which was always a good thing to her, on top of a multitude of people in which one could lose themselves in, and their music was always so mind-numbingly loud, all of which made coming here an obvious choice for her. For four years she had wandered the globe like a lost kitten, never finding her place and never really wanting to.

Usually, she avoided social placed like this, for fear of being recognized, but today was different; it was special.

It was an anniversary of sorts.

Five years ago, she thought to herself, she had lost her temper with her brother, and somehow through a stroke of luck (or perhaps a miracle) she had waterbent an iceberg open, revealing the long lost savior of the world, thus changing her life forever.

Four years ago, she noted quietly, the war that had lasted for over a hundred years had finally ended.

Unfortunately, not in their favor.

Aang was dead; Toph was dead; Sokka, most definitely dead. She was the last—the only one still alive.

How had she managed that? What did she do to deserve to live while everyone around her died?

It wasn't _fair_, damnit.

She wrapped another band around her wrist, hiding the many cuts that were there. There is a small beauty in death, she knew. If only she wasn't so cowardly, maybe she wouldn't be as lonely as she was right now.

It was her own fault, too, and she accepted it rigorously. She avoided people whenever she could—he worst fear was for someone to recognize her.

Aren't you Katara of the South? 

Once, she was. Now, the South was nothing more than a handful of people (or less, it's been so long) living out their lives in quiet isolation. Katara died four years ago, beside her brother, attempting to defend the dying breaths of the Avatar.

At least she _should_ have.

Because really, how could you compare the two? The bright eyed, optimistic child of old, spending her days on the back of a flying bison with all the hope of the world, verses the cynical, dark-eyed, humorless witch who never stayed in one place too long, walking by foot to where she needed to go (she didn't even know where).

She didn't even have Appa or Momo anymore. The flying bison had been severely injured during the final battle, and no one was around to heal him fast enough. She had mourned Appa almost as much as she did the rest of her friends.

As for Momo, she didn't know. He had stayed with her for a few days after Aang's death before he, too, just left. She chased after him for a while, losing him for a day or two before finding the lemur's corpse curled up in a ball near the steps of the old air temple. It was her belief that Momo just died out of grief from the loss of Aang, and she didn't study the body long enough to find out if she was right or not.

* * *

She took another long drink of her ale before she put her empty glass down on the table, motioning for the barkeep to refill it. It was then, in the process of drowning her sorrows, that she saw him. At first she was not sure who it was, but he turned his head at just the right moment…no, there was no mistaking him. That scar could be recognized anywhere.

She almost wanted to go to him, but stopped herself. It had been four years since she had seen the surly Prince; he probably wouldn't even recognize her (she wasn't sure if she would recognize herself). But still, the idea humored her. She wondered what he would say if she walked up to him, maybe even wrapped her arm around him like an old friend, and talked to him.

Ask him: "Remember me? Yeah, I was that girl who followed the Avatar. You chased us halfway around the world, but you stopped after the North Pole. What happened after that? You left and we never heard from you again, which was _okay_, I guess, because we didn't really like you at the time and we had more than enough people chasing us. I always wanted to ask why you stopped; Aang seemed to miss you, if you'll believe that. I _almost_ kinda missed you, though—you had the most personality. Sokka didn't miss you, but Sokka wasn't as open-minded as I was. And yeah, I was the girl you tied to a tree, remember that—"

She was so caught up in her conversation with an imaginary him that she didn't realize the _real_ him had walked over to her, and placed a gentle hand on her should.

"Excuse me…But do I know you from somewhere?"

XXX  
END

SOMEONE SHOOT ME BEFORE THE PLOTBUNNIES CONTINUE! Please?

Jak


	2. Alone

**Acceptance of Fate**

_Warning: this chapter has bad language because Zuko is like that. Also, for future reference, the rating of this fic will probably have to go up to M, but I'll keep it where it's at until we get to that point._

**_2: Alone_**

He had recognized her as soon as he entered the tavern. Perhaps he shouldn't've; he really didn't know her well enough to recognize her the first time he'd seen her in four, maybe even five, years, but he did and he wasn't sorry. A familiar face, even one of a former enemy, was a welcomed sight these days.

So much about her had changed. Gone was the carefree girl of old, and in her stead had been left a tired, broken shell of an angel, lost in tragedy. He knew enough of what had happened after the final battle to know what the cloth wrappings around her wrists were there for. For once, a long time ago, there had been similar ones on his own.

Dark robes now hid her body like shadows, warping her into an aura of mystery. Her eyes were still the crystalline blue, but they were darker, more heartbroken. Underneath them was paint—war paint, if he were any judge—or perhaps that of mourning. Her hair no long followed her like the tail on a cat, but instead was left free, wild curls choosing their own destiny, unlike that of their master.

He noticed she did not smile; not once, not ever.

He really couldn't blame her.

Much had changed since he last saw her, for the both of them. He had long since abandoned his dream of returning home—when his sister was sent to kill him, he took that as a sign that he was no longer welcomed there, under any circumstances. And the Avatar was dead; it was difficult to hunt a dead man, and there was no word on whether he had been reborn or not. Many believed that the cycle was broken and that there would be no child born out of water. Maybe they were correct in this, but Zuko had stopped caring. He had to. If he continued to care, he would continue to hope, and so long as he did that he would never be able to move on.

Devoid of hope, of a dream, of a family, Zuko turned to the only life he was good at.

He became a rogue.

He doubted Uncle would've approved, but Uncle did not approve of a lot of things Zuko did, but that did not stop him. Besides, the old man was _dead_, just like everyone else Zuko cared about.

_Damn_ _it!_ He should've been faster, should've been more flexible, shouldn't've been so stubborn, shouldn't've been so angry.

Should have told the old man he loved him while he had the chance.

No no no, he needed to stop thinking about this: worrying about the past would do him no good; he needed to let _go_, needed to grow _up_. He just had to _focus_.

But on what? That was his problem nowadays, which was why he always kept himself busy, always kept himself focused. He worked more than he actually needed to in order to get by, but he needed the work, needed the distraction it gave him. Killing and robbing and threatening, while all bad things that his conscious bereted him over, was at least something. It kept him from thinking about the past, about his lost dreams, about his vanished throne.

About how so very alone he was, now.

So instead, he watched the girl from a safe distance, and drank his goddamn ale.

She looked about as well off as he was, taking another drink of her alcohol. For one as small as she was, she could hold her liquor well. There was not even a slight glaze over her eyes; she was still in control.

He was half-tempted to go to her, to smile and talk, but he wondered what she would say. Would she fight him, remembering old grudges? Or would she be like him, and just want to talk, for the simple need to hear a familiar voice once more?

He put what was left of his drink down on the counter and stood.

It would be worth the risk.

XXX  
END

:blinks: Wow, this fic is popular. I wasn't expecting that. Thank you bunches! I can't promise how often I'll update, but I'll try, just for you guys. ;)

Jak


	3. Starting over

**Acceptance of Fate**

_**3: Starting over**_

"Excuse me…But do I know you from somewhere?"

Blue eyes met gold. It wasn't the first time the two colors had met, and it wouldn't be the last.

But it was the first time in a very long time, and that made it matter more than anything.

* * *

There was a soft smile, a pause of breath: "I think so. You aren't from around here either, are you?"

A sadder smile returned. "I'm not from around much of anywhere, not anymore."

"Me too."

* * *

There was silence, uncertainty; noiseless panic took over momentarily as he struggled to find the words.

"…Who are you?"

She laughed. "I'm nobody, who are _you?_"

"I guess I'm nobody, too." He chuckled, taking a seat beside her. He watched her as she took another drink of her ale before speaking again.

* * *

"My name is Zuko." There was no title, no honorific, no label placing him above her.

_The Prince is dead_, she noted to herself, _for this bandit isn't him, but who he has become._

"Mine is Katara." There was no hesitation, no explanation, no reason to place her below him.

_The Peasant is dead_, he thought to himself quietly, _and this witch is all that was left of her._

They smiled at one another and shared a drink.

_What a wonderful thing it is to start over.

* * *

_

XXX  
END

Part of dialogue inspired by a poem by Emily Dickinson:

I'm Nobody

_I'm nobody! Who are you?  
Are you nobody, too?  
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!  
They'd banish us, you know. _

_How dreary to be somebody!  
How public, like a frog  
To tell your name the livelong day  
To an admiring bog!_

Reviewers: Jakia, you're avoiding writing the next chapter of Kiss THIS! Aren't you?

Jakia: lalalalalala can't hear you.

_Jak_


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